Tarnish
by MacKenzie Barr
Summary: Steve and Ghost are back in Missing Mile. Fairly Ghost-centric. Set, I suppose, after that roadtrip mentioned in Drawing Blood. I swear, it will develop. Reviews highly appreciated.
1. Part 1

Tarnish

by MacKenzie Barr

Disclaimer: I just wish I owned these boys, the wonderful Steve & Ghost . A few of the back stories and towns also belong to the lovely and outrageously talented Poppy Z. Brite, along with a majority of the other named characters. The only thing I get credit for is the plot.

At a quarter after midnight, Ghost decided that the drunk Southern haze of Cat's Cradle wasn't where he wanted to be. He and Steve had howled out a killer show to all the Chapel Hill kids, even a few faithful Missing Mile faces dotting the crowd, but he felt his smile slipping into tiredness and, quite frankly, boredom as the kids started to not stop coming, greeting him and Steve with beers, big grins, a couple with copies of their tape and a Sharpie marker, asking excitedly, some nervously for autographs. Ghost shyly inked on a loosely graceful 'G' while Steve yanked the tape and pen over to swirl on a drunken version of the same signature he used on checks and Christmas cards.

Ghost swigged back the rest of his Bud Light and slapped the wet bottle down on the bar, turning to Steve and shouting into his ear over Hendrix so loud he was lucky he could hear his thoughts, that guitar ripping into his head like purple lightning. "M'goin'. Should we just meet up later?"

By the "should we just meet up later" part, Steve assumed Ghost wasn't going back to the hotel. "Naw," he growled, start of a liquor breath boiling hot against Ghost's ear. "I'll come on with ya. Hot as hell in here."

They slipped out of the club into the stingingly cold night, Ghost hunkering down into his too-big army jacket, Steve opening up his arms and taking a big breath. He stepped in beside Ghost and tucked his hands into his pockets. "So where you goin'?" Ghost shook his long translucent bangs down into his face, the rest pulled back into a slick pony tail at the base of his skull. He shrugged, then stopped short on the curb, ears perked to the swirl of neon and pulsating bass wafting up the street like Miz Deliverance's apple pie, drawing him to it the way the pie used to draw Steve on a cool afternoon. He turned and headed down the street, passing lurid X's and silhouted nudes. Steve jogged to catch up.

"I wanna go there," he said with childish determination, quickening his step up to the club, modestly labeled as "Mars Peace". Steve followed with a little laugh, but caught Ghost's arm as the pale hand was extending to the heavy door.

"Um... Ghost?" Pale eyes regarded him with innocent question and Steve had to fight hard not to smack his palm against his forehead. "Ghost... this is a queer bar." Blonde brows jumped a little in surprise, but he didn't look discouraged. Looking back to the door, he noted the pink triangles painted gaily above the frame, rainbow tinted mirrors letting out seducing dances of light from inside.

"So?" he asked a little daringly, a voice Steve hadn't heard in maybe too long. "You ain't a fag, Steve Finn." He tugged the door open and Steve inside and they stood staring dumbly into the place from the lobby for a good ten minutes.

The bouncer slapped Steve in the arm and offered up his broad palm. "Fifteen dollar cover charge for couples," he said impatiently. Steve noticed his hand still tucked into the crook of Ghost's elbow as his friend dug three five dollar bills out of his pocket and slapped them into the bouncer's hand. He flushed to the roots of his hair, but thankful for them both, the current light show was a shower of red, and his embarrasment was missed by all but Ghost, who didn't have to look at the bloodrushed cheeks to know Steve was about to puke.

Steve breathed a little sigh of relief as Ghost made a bee-line for the bar, but his stomah fell again when he saw all the well manicured men with pretty tropical drinks, barely alcoholic, set before them on the green glass bar. Ghost slid them into two bar stools squeezed in between a Latino and a skinny Goth kid checking out the fragile faced blonde the minute he came into view. Ghost ordered them both a Budweiser and Steve pulled out a hardpack of Marlboros from his pocket, lit up a half crushed cigarette and sucked on it reverently. It wasn't too often he smoked anything that didn't leave the sticky sweetness of pine in his mouth, but it was situations just like this one that gave the cancer sticks residence in his jeans.

Ghost snatched it up and took a long drag, blowing out a sorry looking smoke ring before coughing it to death and practically shoving it back into Steve's hand. "That shit'll kill you, Steve," he hacked, soothing his throat with a long pull of the bottle. Steve sneered a little laugh and gestured to the speakers rigged to the ceiling, pounding out redundant, mindrot Eurobeat.

"So will this." They sat with silence in between them for a while, though Steve knew something was up with Ghost, but he'd be damned if he was going to deal with it right now, not if he had to put up with this music, too. He turned a little when the Goth boy slid down from his stool, around his back, and shoved his skinny body in between Ghost and Steve, pretty, slender hands wrapping around Ghost's light hair.

Steve couldn't tell what the boy was saying to Ghost, but whatever it was, Ghost was flagging up a "help me!" as obvious as neon. Steve laughed at the boy's undeterred continuance, leaning closer into Ghost, who was nearly falling off the barstool to get away. "Dance with me!" Steve heard him shouting. "C'mon! Just one song!" Ghost pleaded to Steve with his eyes, but Steve just kept laughing.

"Yeah, Ghost, give the boy just one dance." Ghost shot him daggers for that one, and the boy nearly swooned at the name.

"Ghost? Your name is Ghost? That's so cool, sexy, wow, come on, dance with me!" Ghost looked over at Steve again, knew he wasn't going to get any help, even with two left feet, and sighed reluctantly, sliding off the stool and getting dragged onto the dance floor. Steve watched him move unsurely at first, but after a while of bumping into other dancers, he got the hang of it, caught Steve's eye and gave him an acomplished grin before grooving with the little Goth boy for about three songs. Steve didn't get hit on. Just as well, he might have run out of the place vomiting. Nothing against queers, no, not Steve, but the thought of himself and another man was never even within the proximity of appealing. At one o'clock, Ghost came panting back, the boy gone from his arm, and two more prowling with only vague stealth at his back. Steve felt a flash of jealousy as he noticed how many eyes were on his friend, but squelched it down. He'd known Ghost to get jealous when girls fawned over Steve at bars. It was just the way they were about each other.

"You wanna dance?" he asked, only half joking, hands ready to pull Steve into the press of bodies to glide against his own to the never-ending techno beat. Steve laughed it off and Ghost tugged at his shoulder. "Please? We'll leave after if you want, just come dance with me." The tone was hard to argue with, but those sparkling blue eyes were impossible, and he bitched under his breath as Ghost dragged him by the wrist into the crowd, turning and tossing his arms up over Steve's shoulders, immediately dancing wildly, slinging his sweat-beaded blonde hair in every direction. Steve swayed dumbly and hovered his hands over the slim hips.

Ghost bit his lip and pressed tighter into Steve's arms, putting his hands loosely in Steve's winged out, unwashed hair. He was happy, having a damn good time, Steve knew that much; he had the same face on he often had when he was dancing on stage, singing his heart out. Steve swayed a little more, trying to copy Ghost's wild movements, knowing he looked stupid as hell.

One song, Ghost was merciful, and they stumbled out of the club into the night, not forgivingly cool, like earlier, but now witch-titty cold, slapping near 2 AM ice breath into their sweaty faces. "I gotta piss," Steve slurred, going off down the alley. Ghost leaned against the crumbling red brick and tucked his hands into his pockets, chuckling when he heard a muffled "fuck" and the rattling spew of gravel as Steve tripped in the dark. The quiet hum of a zipper had just echoed back to him when three figures drifted out of the shadows up the street like Disney villans, ready to bare their teeth. Ghost pretended to ignore them at first, cast his pale eyes down tiredly, but he knew their intentions. Goddammit, he knew what they wanted to do. Fear crackled up his spine, mingling with their tight adrenaline. He heard one of them laugh a little, but it might have been just a thought. Steve wasn't asking who the hell was there, just singing like a broken guitar from up the alley as he emptied his bladder against the brick.

"Hey little faggot," one of them jeered in the same tone you might lure the neighborhood stray that was stealing out of your garbage. "You wanna play with big boys?" Ghost straightened to his full height, still falling significantly below all three of them, and tried to appear nonchalant and anything but threatening. But fuck, he thought, what did it matter? It was the things he couldn't change that were prevoking these backwoods fucks, anyhow. It was his soft blonde hair, his thin arms, his smooth lips. It was the fact he'd walked out of that goddamn club, looking like a faggot, hell, looking like Steve's lover. He saw a rebel flag bandana hanging out of the front pocket of one of their jeans, nothing too threatening unless you were where he was right now.

He could have called for Steve, but then they would have knocked him one in the mouth, and what the fuck was a singer supposed to do with a broken jaw? He thought back to the two thugs in the gas station lot with Steve, thought how tough he'd been then. But he didn't have a hammer this time, _was_ hammered.

It happened fast and furious. They were excited, couldn't pummel him fast enough, couldn't get enough of his pale skin under their hands and feet. When Steve came careening drunkenly out of the alley, he watched one of them pull at Ghost's hair, the sparkly blue hair tie coming away with a knot of silvery strands. Ghost's face thudded back into the sidewalk and Steve barrelled into the tallest one, dark eyes wild as he pulled a second one down with him. He still had a bottle of beer in his hand and broke it on the curb, brandishing it enough to make the fuckers realize they were in the middle of a street and to back off. They kicked Steve once or twice and gave Ghost a good, farewell toe to the ribs, but left as quickly as they had come, like some phantom Bible Belt shitkickers. Ghost was coughing up a lung, and a mouthful of blood, onto the pale concrete, hair obscuring his face, thin body shaking. Steve tossed the bottle aside and crawled over to him, grabbed him by the shoulders. "Jesus fucking Christ, Ghost. You a'right?"

Ghost kept coughing, but nodded, hugging his ribs tightly. Steve helped him stand and brushed him off. "Gotta fuckin' teach you how to fight one o' these days," he grumbled chastisingly, but Ghost knew he was glad as hell the fag hating trio hadn't put up much more of a fight. What a lovely ending to a similarly themed road trip.

The T-Bird was a few blocks away and they made it there with long, slow, tired steps. Ghost hung on Steve's shoulder and Steve leaned back. They already had a cheap room at Holiday Inn. Good thing, too. Ghost wouldn't even think of letting Steve drive tonight, and he'd be damned if he'd be doing it. Missing Mile wasn't too far away, but even just across town was hell after months in that damned car. They needed a real night of rest for once, and yes, going to bed at 2 AM was real rest for Lost Souls?

Ghost tucked himself up against the dash board and let Steve drive nice and slow to the hotel, watching the lights flicker on the foggy windshield, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs. They hadn't hurt him too badly, nothing Steve hadn't gotten him into before, but something about it bothered him, itched under the sting. Something about being weak, something about being passive. And something about the goddamn ironic truth of the whole fucking thing. He wished he'd kept dancing with Steve all night long.

TBC. ...?


	2. Part 2

Tarnish

by MacKenzie Barr

Disclaimer: I just wish I owned these boys, the wonderful Steve & Ghost . A few of the back stories and towns also belong to the lovely and outrageously talented Poppy Z. Brite, along with a majority of the other named characters. The only thing I get credit for is the plot.

Kinsey frowned at Ghost's busted lip and slid him a Natty Boho over the counter. "You have fun?" Ghost smiled a little and nodded.

"Guess so," and before Kinsey could ask, "Steve's still asleep." He turned the bottle on the bar and took a small sip, turning back to look at the big gold letters he'd sprayed up a couple years back. _We are not afraid. _Don't you fucking wish. Kinsey cleaned a couple bowls thoughtfully. It was Japanese noodle soup night again. He wouldn't make a killing on it, but it was easy. The silence now, however, was not. A mind like Ghost's could live for eons on silence.

"Thanks for the postcards," he said politely, gesturing to the bulletin board full of them on the back wall leading down to the restroom. There was one or two from Jamaica, but Ghost would ask about those later. "Good to know you guys hadn't abandoned us."

Ghost chuckled a little. "Now what in the hell would Steve and I do without Missing Mile?" His tone was joking, but his question was honest. So many had told them that if they put everything down but the music and kept barrelling forward, they could make it. They weren't just a small town band, peole said. But Steve and Ghost, they knew better. The house down on Burnt Church Road, Whirling Disc, the Sacred Yew, that's where they had been their whole lives, save for the first ten years of Ghost's that had been spent holed up in the Carolina mountains. They'd stay here.

They'd driven in around noon and prompty fell back asleep in their own rooms. Ghost knew someone other than Missing Mile locals, Terry and his friends and maybe a few club kids, had been in the house. There was another smell, too. A lingering foreign aura that somehow felt like it wasn't alien at all. Nevertheless, he'd pulled down some finger paints and touched up the warding sign on the porch.

It was about four now and Kinsey was setting up for the night's show, proudly marketed on Xeroxed posters as "LOST SOULS? RETURNS! TONIGHT AT 9!" Ghost had come early with their sparce equipment and words in his head that weren't quite ready for talking. Kinsey thought he understood, or atleast, understood enough. He'd watched the two of them ever since they'd first met. Even as kids, there was something unfathomable between them. If there were any two souls closer than those, he'd like to meet them. For the first few years of their friendship, they had been inseparable, and even after Steve started dating nearly every decent looking, willing girl in Missing Mile, he never left Ghost behind. Ghost had never really dated, or atleast, not that Kinsey had seen. But then again, he didn't think Ghost had the slightest inkling of a sex drive, much less the will to date. After all, he had all the love he needed from Steve.

Ghost could feel Kinsey reminicing about him and it made him a little uncomfortable. He finished half the bottle in one go. "I kissed him," he said softly, staring down at the bar. It was an answer to a question Kinsey had asked almost a year ago, after they had come back without Ann and right before they left for San Francisco. Kinsey looked up, surprised as hell. He'd known something had happened down there, something that made Ghost happy and remorseful all at once, but a kiss had never been on his list of possibilities. Of course, hell, right now he couldn't remember what _had_ been.

"On the mouth?" he asked a little dumbly, putting the bowl and dish towel down and leaning on the bar, regarding Ghost thoughtfully. Ghost nodded.

"Yeah, right on the mouth. I didn't mean to, it wasn't what I meant to do, not really. But I did." He was peeling the label off his beer now, stalling, trying not to remember how warm Steve's lips had been, how good they felt. "He kissed me back, too."

This one had Kinsey almost laughing. Ghost must be pulling his damn chain! Steve Finn, rough 'em, tough 'em, fuck 'em Steve Finn had kissed not only his best friend, but a _man_? It almost had him laughing, _almost_, until the blue of Ghost's eyes reminded Kinsey that Ghost didn't fuck around. "Did you--"

Ghost shook his head quickly. "No. We just kissed and fell asleep. I don't even think he remembers it." This last part put obvious sadness in Ghost's eyes. Kinsey didn't blame him. Sharing something like that with someone you care so much about, they'd better damn remember it. Of course, it wasn't only Ghost that had made Kinsey inquire all those months ago. Steve had been acting a little off, as well, paying closer attention to Ghost instead of just accepting him there. Now that Kinsey thought of it, it seemed Steve had been looking an awful lot at Ghost's mouth, watching the thin pink petals moved when he talked.

He leaned back and sighed heavily. This child thought too damn much, he could tell from the lines around his face, the crease in his pale brow. "Bother you much?" he asked lightly, trying to ease some of the worry out of Ghost's face. The pale eyed boy just shrugged a little.

"Guess it does. I didn't even mean to do it."

"Well, you know what Freud says about that."

"Fuck Freud."

Kinsey frowned, tucked some of his hippie long hair behind his ear. "Ghost," he started gently, "I hope you don't mind if I ask this, because you know you can trust me, but," _why am I even asking? I already know the answer, it's as plain as day_, "well," _because _he_ needs to know it_, "do you love him?"

Ghost shot up off the bar stool and froze, made like he might dash out of the place and never come back, but the look in his eyes said why he hadn't run. _Where would I go? _He slid back up to the bar and gripped it with both hands, looked down at the toes of his scuffed Converse sneakers, kicked them against the bar. "Shit yeah," he confessed softly. "O'course I do." Kinsey was about to give himself a pat on the back when Terry came in, loud as ever, all smiles.

"Woohoo! Hell yeah! My favorite mind reader's back in town!" He hugged the littler man so tight his feet lifted up off the floor and he groaned helplessly as he was squeezed into the pine smelling embrace. Terry set him down and Ghost grinned up at him.

"Hey," he offered plainly. Terry slapped him on the back heavily, nearly made him fall over.

"Where's Steve?"

"At home."

"You boys have fun?"

"Yeah."

"Squeeze a lot o' girls?"

"I gotta get home..." Ghost picked up his beer and Terry blinked in confusion as Kinsey shot him a reproachful warning glance. "See ya tonight," Ghost called from the door and was gone into the bright sun. Terry gave Kinsey a begging look to be informed, but Kinsey just shrugged, gave a long glance at the golden words arching up to the ceiling, and began to whipe down the bar.

Steve was in the shower, thank god, when Ghost got home. He took off his straw hat and set it on the coffee table, stretching and taking a deep breath of the house. Being anywhere with Steve was home, but nothing felt quite as warm as this. He walked down the hall, trailed his hands along the walls, and slipped into his room. He felt Calvin in here, someone else, and Terry, of course. Thankfully, the displaced presence from before was free from his space. The window was still broken, covered with a thick black posterboard. The bat was still out in the over grown yard somewhere. Zillah's smear of blood on his wall had been turned into the bright fall of Ann's hair, the handprints colored over with bright blues and tacked over the blue were the two postcards from Nothing. There had been no more.

Ghost took off his shoes, shucked off the black and white striped knee socks, fought the dirty t-shirt over his head, and laid down. His sheets felt soft and cool against his skin and he burroughed down into them, falling sleep almost instantly.

Steve stepped out of the shower not long after, shook his long hair and wrapped a towel around his waist, padding oblong puddles of water down the hall runner, stopping at Ghost's door on his way to retrieve a beer. He leaned in the frame and watched Ghost sleep, little lips parted, lavender lids closed over those blue eyes, his sun golden lashes kissing his pale cheeks. Steve stepped into the room and over to Ghost, sighed as he knelt down carefully and crossed his arms on the edge of the bed. "What goes on in there, Ghost?" he asked quietly. "What are you seeing in that magic head?"

Ghost made no response but a long sleep sigh, eyelids fluttering and then easing, body subconsciously shifting a little towards the warmth of Steve's breath. Steve leaned forward and brushed blonde hair away from Ghosts' high, pale forward, kissing it before letting the hair fall back down.

"Dream those dreams, Ghost. I always wanna hear 'em." He stood and walked back to the door, continuing his original path to the kitchen. "Dream a couple for me."

TBC


	3. Part 3

Tarnish

by MacKenzie Barr

Disclaimer: I just wish I owned these boys, the wonderful Steve & Ghost . A few of the back stories and towns also belong to the lovely and outrageously talented Poppy Z. Brite, along with a majority of the other named characters. The only thing I get credit for is the plot.

Ghost could feel his body practically breathing through its pores. Steve reached over and pushed the straw hat down over his eyes playfully before pulling the night's first chord out of the guitar. He leaned back into Ghost's shoulder, who was growling out the words. The kids were swaying and singing back, watching their barely elder homegrowns rip songs out of their souls, shove them through the wiring and out the big speakers. Terry and R.J. were playing tonight, but lagged back and let the two soak up the crowd glory, playing their parts with easy smiles.

Ghost's voice slid smooth and slick over the music, catching a little here, drawing out a little there. He clapped his hands and drummed his thighs to the beat, tried a few chords of air guitar that got a good laugh out of Steve. He could feel everybody in the place, even the older men sitting at the bar, there for the loud comfort and warm drink rather than the music, but he felt them, alright. He sang for all of them.

Ghost could hear Kinsey all the way from the bar, hooting and hollering with gusto. By the end of _World_, the swaying, closed-eyed children were singing it louder than Ghost and he leaned out over them, opened his arms and tossed back his head, breathed back by the whispering defiance of their fear.

Steve slid through the crowd to the bar as soon as it was over, a few kids slapping him on the back or ruffling his hair. Ghost was practically swarmed. All of them watched to touch him for just a moment. He stopped and talked with a few, but finally made it back to the bar, slipping in beside Steve, who was already chugging down a Natty Boho with R.J. and Terry.

Kinsey gave them a sly smile and pulled out two shot glasses, placing them before Steve and Ghost. "Just for you," he drawled, producing a bottle of Night Train. "Welcome home."

- - - -

Ghost had both hands wrapped around the bottle neck, sagging into Steve with a slow, stupid grin on as Kinsey gave last call. Half the liquor was gone. Steve was looking through the shot glasses like binoculars. There were only a few kids left, really. Only a few still drinking, at least. The others were talking and getting ready to head home or wherever at the tables strewn outward from the bar. Bordering on being crushing in his pocket, Steve had two joints of what Terry had claimed was good greenhouse stuff from the midlands of South Carolina. He planned to drive home and share one with Ghost, and save the other for the inevitable hangover tomorrow morning. Well, he thought blearily, gazing at the clock, later this morning.

Ghost slid off the barstool, stumbled out into the place and headed in the general direction of the door. He didn't get much weirder, but it didn't mean he could walk straight and easy. Night Train weighted his stomach nice and clean, a solid lead burn that tinted his veins orange and amber.

Steve followed and caught him by the elbow, helping him into the T-Bird, dragging his feet back around to the driver's side and dropping himself in. Ghost took another little sip and let it roll around on his tongue. Steve contemplated his keys in one hand and one of the joints in the other, still shoved into his linty pockets, shrugging off the urge to light up, god forbid he find a match anyway, and turned the monstrous engine. Ghost cranked down the window and let his head loll out, golden, moonstreaked hair whipping like a halo around his head, voice gone rougher with Night Train, carrying out over Missing Mile and the surrounding sparsity as he wailed a song so old to him he couldn't remember where he had heard it. What words he forgot, he made up.

The house near the dead end of Burnt Church Road was surrounded by an uncut but charmingly overgrown yard that barely differentiated between Ghost's meager herb garden and the imposing forest, ready to reclaim the land with its twisting vines, aching pines, and hungry kudzu. Ghost stumbled out of the old T-Bird as Steve cut the engine, up the side porch steps and nearly falling over a moved rocking chair, sagging against the door as he opened it. Steve followed close behind, locking the door with a little rattle to make sure it had caught. The windows stayed locked, and would until summer when the stew-thick humidity smothered the South all the way from the mountains down to the coast. Ghost swayed a little in the middle of the living room, head tilted and eyes half closed. It felt damn good to be home.

Steve slung his boots off by the door and peeled off his socks, dropping them into the hamper in the bathroom on his way to his room. Midlands Maryjane all but forgotten, he gave Ghost a little wave and teetered off to bed. "G'Night," he called with a slur. "Don't wake me up or I swear to God I'll kill you."

Ghost chuckled and toed off his sneakers, pushing them into the little hall closet and padding off to his room, sliding out of his clothes and into a loose pair of gray wash pants. He stretched grandly and his bird-like shoulders winged out under his pale back. Again, his sheets received him with a cool, rose scented warmth, and the sound of Steve's loud breathing down the hall and rain rolling in lulled him into a dark, deep sleep.

- - - -

Steve rocked up uneasily onto his scrawny ass, chicken legs hanging over the edge of the bed as he chanced to push to his feet. He raked a hand back through his uncharacteristically clean hair and shuffled down the hall towards the kitchen. If he didn't shove at least half a bottle of Tylenol down his throat in the next five minutes, one of two very unpleasant sounding things would happen; his head would pop like a ripe melon, or he might just turn into a bottle of beer. While the second actually sounded a bit fitting and interesting, it wasn't enough to put him back in bed. Besides, he was already halfway down the hall and turning around would probably land him flat on his ass, and fuck if he was going to stand back up if that happened.

A light on at the end of the hall and a tiny sound sobered him quickly enough. He shuffled a little faster to the bathroom where Ghost stood slumped over the sink, crystalline tears fapping gently into the porcelain basin, sliding over his creamy skin, leaving shimmering diamond tracts over over his gentle rise of cheek. Steve braced himself in the door jam, his state and position letting a little memory slide into him, the jealousy and hurt of seeing Arkady touch Ghost, or watching him kiss him, the scared, guilty look painting Ghost's summer blue eyes when Steve announced his annoyed presence. He furrowed his dark brows over his dark eyes under his dark, unruly hair and made sure to soften his look enough to appear sympathetic and caring and not drunk and a little irritated, which was actually what he was, despite wanting to be the former. "Ghost?" he croaked gently, voice sore and loud against the tiles and the throbbing walls of his head. "Ghost, y'OK?"

Ghost took in a shivering breath, brittle and frail, like torn parchment. He squeezed his eyes shut and let two fat, hot drops smear down his face. "I... dunno. Not sure." He pursed his lips and straightened in an attempt to be strong, like Steve, Steve was always strong, but the taste of his tears only made him sob again, spraying saline mist against the mirror from his scarlet lips. Steve reached forward and rubbed a warm, broad hand down Ghost's bare arm, sending a wave of goosebumps rippling over his flesh. Steve watched it spread to a shiver down his spine, raising the little golden hairs along his arms and at the small of his back, baby-pink nipples shuddering erect at the touch. Ghost began to pull away but leaned into Steve's embrace, knew it was probably the only true safety he had. Skinny arms wrapped around a skinny waist and thin, bony hands wound themselves in a dark mass of debatable curls. Steve rested his cheek on Ghost's soft curtain of blonde hair and shushed him softly, rocking him back and forth and making small, warm circles over his back. Ghost swallowed the sobs and focused on Steve's calm to push away the inexplicable sadness that had wrenched him from sleep.

"Bad dream?" Steve inquired softly, leaning them both up against the counter. Ghost shook his head and drew back a little.

"Nuh uh. Can't even remember my dream. Just woke up and felt like somebody'd died or somethin'. Maybe it _was_ the dream, but I'm pretty sure I'd remember what it was for it to make me ache like that. Goddamn, like I woke up to find you'd gone and left me over night." He pulled his shaking hands through Steve's hair and pressed his cheek into the warm chest, feeling Steve's heart beat radiate behind the ribs. Steve squeezed him a little subconsciously, Ghost catching the thought and smiling a little through the tears

_I ain't goin' nowhere myself, hell naw._ "Wan'me to lie down with you?" Steve sounded tired and a little grudging of the idea, but knew it was the least he could do, what they always did, and he'd do as many times as it might take to chase away all of Ghost's demons and nightmares.

Ghost nodded and Steve led him first into the kitchen for a drink of water and Tylenol for himself, then back into Ghost's room, curling around his bony figure under the blankets, his back against the cool, solid wall, Ghost's back pressed up against his chest. He buried his nose into the crook of Ghost's long, thin neck and wrapped a hand over his hip, slipping back into a drunk, but more stable sleep, warding off the rest of the night's ill from Ghost with his dark, protective presence.


	4. Part 4

Tarnish

by MacKenzie Barr

Disclaimer: I just wish I owned these boys, the wonderful Steve & Ghost . A few of the back stories and towns also belong to the lovely and outrageously talented Poppy Z. Brite, along with a majority of the other named characters. The only thing I get credit for is the plot.

Pre-Scriptural Note:

Dearest Readers,

While I would like to thank all of you who have read this story so far, and are reading it now, I would also like to take this time to make a notice of something I find equal parts hilarious and slightly disconcerting. While Steve's last name has been soundly disclosed as Finn, Ghost has never been directly written with a surname, or atleast, has not to the best of my knowledge. However, his grandmother was Miz Deliverance, a name that, when compared in context to a name like Miz Caitlin, can be assumed that either her first or last name was Deliverance. Is Ghost's last name Deliverance? Considering that most school seating charts, especially at the beginning of the year, are in alphabetical order, it would be logical for him to have Deliverance as a surname, as written in Lost Souls with Steve sitting behind Ghost in class. So let's presume Ghost's full, legal name is Ghost Deliverance. ... Doesn't that sound like some kind of supernatural postal service?..

--Regards, Mac

They had both let their hair grow since New Orleans, Steve's a crow's wing mess falling thick upon his shoulders, and Ghost's like summer wheat nearly half-way down his delicate back. Steve had even taken the patience to let Ghost teach him to braid, so that he could twine and untwine Ghost's cornsilk strands in sunlight or moonlight while Ghost hummed pleasantly to Steve's uncut fingernails mulling over his scalp, shaking the fine strands loose to be done over again. It had become a bit of a nervous habit of his, but neither found it to be irritating, so neither made any effort to have it stopped.

He sighed slowly as he wound three small braids from the flaxen wing over Ghost's eyes and wove those three into one large braid. During the night, Ghost had rolled and wrapped Steve in his arms. Steve wouldn't admit it, but he felt very safe and protected in the arms of the one he had fallen asleep trying to protect. Morning light poured in through the top half of the broken window and shadowed behind the black posterboard. He was debating if he wanted to go to work today, or just wait another week. Terry wouldn't mind either way, but in all truth, Steve did.

Despite the surprisingly enormous fortune Miz Deliverance had left for Ghost, who was far more than willing to share it, Steve had a distinct inclination to do things for himself. He often argued with Ghost not to buy his share of groceries, though he usually did anyway, or clothes, or gas for the T-Bird when money was tight, feeling more secure of these purchases when the money for them had been gained of his own accord, even if those accords included jimmying defenseless soda machines. In fact, Steve sometimes wished to be without Ghost, if only to prove to himself he could live on his own, but he had come soundly to terms with the fact that being on his own and being without Ghost were intirely different things, the latter far more difficult than the former.

Steve let the heavy braid fall back across Ghost's nose and brow, a loose strand of it catching between his bowed lips. Steve caught it gently and pulled it away, smiling despite himself at Ghost's warm breath into his hand. Holy blue eyes blinked slowly open and Ghost moaned and stretched, arching into Steve as he worked out the stiffness in his joints and back. Steve yawned and at length, disentangled himself from the pale knot of limbs. Ghost rolled onto his back and gave Steve a little smile, the left side of his face red from being pressed warm against Steve's shoulder. "Hey," he croaked out, voice thick as honey and just as sweet. Steve heard mountain in that voice, could catch a little drifting snatch of it sometimes, and let it settle on the bed between them. No hillbilly origins were Ghost's, but magic.

"Hey," he offered back, sliding a broad hand back through a tough mane of ebony. As a child, he had practically been scolded for such wild, rebellious, and devilishly thick hair. As he grew older, he found it fitting, or atleast, liked to think so. His hair was what he aspired to be, what he strived to personify; wild, dark, untamable. It gave a standoffish appeal, as if he had recently been in a fight and was not to be fucked around with. Ghost knew better, and though grudging to comply to its truth, so did Steve, but an image was an image and Steve Finn sure as hell enjoyed his.

Watching Ghost glide out of the bed and down the hall to the bathroom, he laid back down and thought lazily of Ghost's image, as well. Though he was as open as a book and true to his word, his small frame and gentleness often had him mistaken for weak. It may have taken near death to make Steve truly realize it, but he knew soundly now that Ghost was far, far away from weak, was stronger than Steve could ever hope to be, perhaps, and for both their sakes, he hoped Ghost would stay that way.

Steve tumbled out of the bed and padded back into his room for clean, or alteast, new clothes, carrying them into the now free bathroom and making himself presentable. Ghost was curled up on the couch watching cartoons over a dangerously full bowl of Honey Nut Cherrios by the time he had left the bathroom, and a pot of coffee was brewing its soothing aroma from the kitchen. Steve stepped behind the couch and swiftly undid the braids he had woven before going to make himself some burnt toast and a cup of mostly black coffee.

He leaned against the counter watching the empty road through the wide porch windows and thought rather plainly that Ghost would be turning twenty-four rather soon, himself a few months into twenty-five. Ghost had never been overly excited about his birthdays, but did not protest when Steve and others insisted on throwing him some form of party and supplying him with, if not presents, atleast a notable amount of alcohol. Steve had fallen into the wine-giving category for the past several years, well, since Ghost's 18th birthday, the first after his grandmother had died and therefore could not scold Steve for providing her angel with such a lewd gift, and planned to break the habit this year. Several gift ideas had swarmed through his head, but he had not made any definitive choices yet, nor did he plan to until the time became more pressing. Pushing throughts of the upcoming event to the back of his mind, he set his coffee cup down in the sink and went to join Ghost on the couch.

"Figure out what happened last night?" he asked during a commercial, the only time child-minded Ghost might actually pay attention and listen to him. Ghost shrugged a little and shook his head, setting his empty bowl onto the side table.

"Naw... but it ain't botherin' me now, anyway, so I wouldn't worry about it." Something about the way he tucked his knees to his chest and pursed his lips, not an uncommon position for him, but somehow nervous, made Steve know the event bothered him, but he took Ghost's advice and ignored it as best as the haunting image of his tear-streaked face could allow. "You think you're gonna go back to work today?" Ghost asked, picking up his bowl and carrying it into the kitchen. Steve stood, stretched, eyed his keys and the T-Bird sagging in the yard outside.

"Hell, I dunno. Maybe. Guess so. Why?" He straddled the back of one of the kitchen chairs, one of four identical relics Miz Deliverance used to claim were passed down from generations of her father's gypsy family in early Czechslovakia. Ghost washed dishes and shrugged his shoulders again.

"Thought I might go into town. House feels too full, Terry's an oversocial loud mouth. I wanna leave it nice and quiet for a while, air it out, open the windows." He smiled at his description of their friend, but hell, it was true. Both that and his feeling of the house. All those minds he had felt inside the walls upon their arrival were still tucked into the nooks and crannies. He needed to get them out, and it was going to take more than a broom. "Maybe that's what had me up last night," he wondered aloud, rinsing out Steve's mug. Steve rested his chin on his arms, folded over the back of the chair, and watched Ghost quietly. Every detail pleaded for his attention and he swept his eyes up and down the slender frame. It often amazed him that Ghost was a real, tangible, living creature, and in moments such as these he felt the urge to mentally register each and every hair into his memory in case he might shatter into a million golden particles and be gone forever.

Each curve and round slope of his body made perfect angles, from his slim hips and smooth shoulders, to his long, thin legs, hintingly revealed through oversived washpants. When he turned, the sun caught the sparce, barely visible trail of golden hair from about his collar bone down into the low-slung pants. Steve could see every sharp juncture and rivet of his bare back through the pale canvas of skin, the muscles working under a complexion like snow over stark marble stairs. His fall of silvery-gold hair swung when he moved around the kitchen, ready to make pancakes to fill their dissatisfied stomachs, thin hands like sculptures. He was walking art, the Dorian Gray of a new era if only in looks, for certainly Ghost remained forever young in his heart but never boasted, if he even noticed, his porcelain, lovely features. Steve wanted to trace each contour of his finely boned face, smooth callused palms over the plains of his elongated form. The desire was not entirely sexual, more reverant, most certainly, but made him uncomfortable nonetheless, and even more so when the tight lipped blush painting Ghost's features let him know more than a few of those thoughts had drifted through.

Ghost didn't push it. Knew better than to make Steve embarassed, and also knew it might result in pushing him away, but he savored the thoughts, briefly allowed himself to imagine what it might be like if Steve ever succumbed to such an urge. He knew what it felt like to have Steve hold him, to sleep wrapped around his all-elbows-and-knees body, but something in him, something that made him color as bright as a sunset, longed to taste his kiss again, to be _caressed_. He bit back a little laugh thinking fleatingly that Steve may actually be entirely incapable of something so gentle as a caress. Still yet, he wanted whatever came close.

- - - -

Ghost lay on the hood of the T-Bird just outside of town, straw hat pushed down over his eyes, bottle of strawberry wine tucked between his thighs, autumn filling his lungs. Steve had let him use the car for the day to run a few errands, mostly up to Miz Caitlin's for some healthy talking rather than a tonic, and now that he was done, he lay on the sun- and engine-warmed hood watching the blue sky mirror his eyes. Steve had told him to be back by five and it was about four. He would spend a while longer here before driving slowly back into town and flipping through tapes while Steve sat out the rest of his shift. Closing his eyes, he brought back Steve's thoughts from that morning, stretched what Steve imagined touching Ghost might be like as far to real as he could and wrapping it around himself for a while, the warm tingle of breeze against his skin, billowing under his button-down, seventies' print, fitted shirt (though fitted for a man a good fifty pounds heavier than slight-figured Ghost), the touch mistaken for one blissful moment as Steve's.

Downing a good, sweet swig of the wine, he recalled the kiss for as long as he could without it aching and slid off the hood, brushing himself off, tucking the bottle into the backseat, and pulling the monster of a car back around towards town to pick up Steve.

His reveries had lasted longer than expected and nearly as soon as he had pulled up in front of the Whirling Disc, Steve came out, across the sidewalk, and over the driver's side. Ghost slid over the seat and let Steve drive, turning to face him and crossing his legs Indian style. "Well? Feel good to back?"

Steve chuckled a little. "I'm a working man. A working man in a record store in a pit-stop town with too much damn weed in the back room. Hell yeah, I dont know why we ever left." Though it was not voiced, he caught a distinct _me, neither_ from Ghost.

When they arrived home, Ghost set to work carrying in fresh groceries and making biscuits, stuffed mushrooms, and an experimental angel hair pasta, none of which went with each other, but all tasted wonderful. Steve went around closing the windows and Ghost proclaimed the house officially cleansed, fisting his hands on his hips proudly and clearing away the plates, which Steve washed while Ghost dried. It wasn't hard falling back into Missing Mile life. They had come to long for the droning normalcy of their small town out on the road, and being together always came like second nature.

Steve drank a beer or two on the couch, but ultimately went to bed early, looking sated and tired. Ghost let a small smile creep back into his lips. After everything that had happened, coming home had an underlying sorrow to it. Thinking of how they had been thrown around like rag dolls for those brief, and yet achingly drawn out, long, eons of torment, of how it had hurt both of them, especially Steve, made returning to the seed of such pain a dull ache in his heart. Steve had himself convinced the bulk of it lay back in New Orleans, but Ghost understood it to be quite the opposite. Looking at Steve now, though, he knew it had made him stronger, knew it made _them_ stronger, and as long as it stayed that way, well, he guessed that was alright. Maybe. They had gotten through it, didn't talk about it much, but somehow it still hurt, hurt deep, like a fresh wound rather than an old scar, but there Steve was, smiling in the walls that had housed his love for Ann, that might for the rest of forever. It pulled at Ghost hard, tugged in his chest something fierce sometimes. He loved Steve, but as much as he didn't want to believe it, that just wasn't enough for him anymore.


	5. Part 5

Tarnish

by MacKenzie Barr

Disclaimer: I just wish I owned these boys, the wonderful Steve & Ghost . A few of the back stories and towns also belong to the lovely and outrageously talented Poppy Z. Brite, along with a majority of the other named characters. The only thing I get credit for is the plot.

_August, 1987_

Something in the water that summer made Ghost's pale hair crawl all the way down his back, falling like a golden waterfall to his waist. Miz Deliverance had insisted on cutting it, finding Steve cross-legged on the front porch while the small-framed woman pushed her beloved grandson's head forward, taking kitchen shears to his dandelion locks and snipping them up to his shoulders. The two boys had been joking, mostly at each other, as Miz Deliverance hummed softly to herself and showered the old boards with silky strands.

Steve fingered a few felled locks, tucking one discreetly into his pocket. "There," Deliverance chortled proudly. "All done." There was a little golden braid wrapped around her wrist and she tucked it into her apron, ushering the two boys in so she could sweep the porch. Ghost sat at the kitchen table while Steve brought them both a soda.

He shook his hair into his face and combed it with his fingers. "Feels short," he pouted.

Steve pat him on the cheek, grinning. "Looks good."

Ghost pouted again and tucked his hair back behind his ears. "What, you don't like me with long hair?"

Steve made a face in return to Ghost's pouting. "Naw, you're too pretty. I might try and kiss you."

Ghost managed to smile back, but Steve's words triggered a memory from earlier that day, watching his grandmother iron her favorite skirt, his arms crossed over the back of the couch, perched on the sofa like a child. "Gramma?" he'd asked ever-so-sweetly. "Can me an' Steve get a tape player?" She let out a bell-like laugh and met his lovely, pleading eyes with a pair much the same, only far older, heavier, perhaps a little sad.

"You got money, Ghost-child?" She put her iron down carefully, fisting hands on her hips. Ghost made an exasperated face.

"Naw, not really. That's why I'm askin' you!" He gave his sweetest smile, the kind that might just rot his teeth out if he wasn't careful, and she laughed.

"For you _and_ Steve, huh? Child, you gonna give your heart to that boy." Ghost became very quiet and Miz Deliverance only laughed at the statement for a moment before pursing her lips and hanging up her skirt, tucking away the ironing board and iron. "Ghost-child..." She wanted to say so much, had volumes of old advice and cautions to give to the boy that had become more like a son than a grandchild to her. She kept them to herself, instead. "You can have the money for it, if you want, child." It gave her heart a great sigh of relief to see the smile return to Ghost's scarlet mouth as he hopped over the couch and came to wrap her in a hug.

He sat at the kitchen table and mulled over what she might have meant by that. Give his heart to Steve... sure, he loved Steve, Steve was his only friend, only real friend, anyway. He didn't know what he would do without him, always had fun with him around, and most of all, felt safe. But give him his heart? The idea was somewhat alien to him, but intrigued him nonetheless, made him rebelliously curious. Something else quickly caught his attention, however. Deliverance shut the front door and went over to the closet, setting in the broom and leaning on the brass knob for a moment to catch her breath. His chest constricted horribly and he knew with far too much certainty these were her last days. She turned, saw his face. He could swear there were tears in her eyes, but a smile behind them. She set the shears on the side table in the living room and went quietly into her room. Steve was oblivious, ranting about his radio being stolen from his T-Bird.

"Hey, where you goin'?" Ghost practically stormed to her bedroom, blowing through the kitchen, living room, hall, and stopping dead at Deliverance's door, the one that would become Steve's room later, and drew in the hardest breath he had ever had to take.

"Don't you dare," he croaked softly. "Please, no." Deliverance nodded gently and set her old, tired body down on the bed. It was a little late and she had been going to bed earlier and earlier each night. He came to the bed and sat down as she laid out over the sheets.

"Tired old woman, Ghost. You gonna make me stay up with you and Steve all night?" She laughed a little at her own joke, but Ghost did not, stared down at her with eyes raining sorrow down his face. She licked her dry lips and took his hand. He squeezed back so hard he might have broken her little hand. "Can't stop this, child. Can't dare stop this. I promise you, my baby, it's OK, though. I ain't scared, no sir, not me." She gave him a smile that said she was a little afraid after all, but not enough. Not that scared, it would be alright. He offered a little smile for her sake.

"Why, though? Are you sick? Should I call a doctor, could I--"

"No use, my baby. A few days, a week, what does it matter? I'd have to go eventually. It would only hurt you worse, my child, Ghost-child, my earth angel." She took out his braid of hair from her apron and stroked it reverantly. "Maybe this will buy me a nice spot up in heaven, or as a life next time as a river. Always too restless to stay in one spot, me. I'd make a good, swift river." Ghost hung his head, pulled her hand to his cheek and cradled it for a long, long time, or so it seemed, until he felt Deliverance shifting, motioning for Steve, who stood dumbstruck and unbelieving at the door, to her side.

He stepped carefully across the room, like maybe if he turned around and left it wouldnt be happening, but he arrived at the bed at last, sitting behind Ghost, one hand strong on his shoulder, the other taking Deliverance's hand. "Are you--"

"Shush, child, you'll scare me. Come 'ere, sugar." She pulled him down to her, leaned her face into his thick, wild hair. "You make a promise, ya hear? You take care of my baby, you watch my baby. Love him good for me." Steve nodded. He hadn't asked to become a part of this magic family, but it happened anyway. He may not have asked to, but he was lucky he had. "Promise me," she insisted.

"I swear," he whispered. Steve had broken a lot of promises. This one was a vow. He hadn't broken one of those yet. If this were his only one, he never would.

She smiled, then laughed the sadness off. She was never a woman to let tragedy linger. "Good. Now get on out'chuh so I can talk t' my Ghost-child." He did as he was told, went to lay down on Ghost's bed and dream slow, technicolor dreams about swimming in a river of gold. Deliverance held Ghost's hand until it was completely dark outside the house that would soon be his, telling him as many herb remedies and magic secrets as she could. "Ain't never taught you my magic, boy. Damn shame, too. You's as magic as they come. Damn near an ingredient." He shook his head and tried to speak, but did not. Her old finger touched his lips and she turned her head, long, silver hair fanning out around her like a snow storm. "My earth angel. Oooh, child, you gonna be real pretty for a long, long time. Somebody real strong gonna take yo' heart. Don't _ever_ think love ain't enough, my baby, specially when love is all you got. Love always gonna be enough."

- - - -

Ghost couldn't feel his legs or backside anymore, the gravel over the grave digging into his skin through his jeans, but he didn't care. Sometimes, if he was very patient here, she would talk to him. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the stone. "You were right," he whispered to her, rocking back and forth to keep warm. "You were _so_ right. I gave him my heart, Deliverance. I gave him damn near everything I had. So what now? You told me someone strong would love me, but Steve... is this it? He loves me, but is this all I get? Do I never get to feel his kiss again? Do I get to die a celibate old sensitive with love for the one person that might not know how to return it? I guess I could do that as long as he's with me, but is this really what you meant would happen?" He sighed, frustrated. She wasn't here today, or was not answering. She had done this in life, as well. There were certain things she made him find out for himself. "I love him, you know that. I love him real good. I wouldn't mind giving myself to him. I want to. I want to have that, and I never did before. It's just... sometimes your words give me hope. And other days... other days they make me feel real damn alone."

He fell quiet when he heard loud footsteps crunching through the graveyard. Steve stepped up behind him and gave him a little toe to the back. "Surprised you're not frozen." Ghost caught a thought, _Are you alright?_ When he stayed silent, Steve knelt down beside him. "Y'know, I miss her, too." Ghost sighed and Steve raked hand back through his hair, thinking maybe that was a dumb thing to say. "You two talkin' bad about me?" Ghost let a short laugh escape.

"Naw. She ain't talkin' today, anyway."

"Just as well. I put your bike in the trunk. Let's get home before you turn blue." Ghost felt himself warm a little already at Steve's second-nature care, following him back to the T-Bird with a silent goodbye to Miz Deliverance. The drive home was quiet. Supper of TV dinners was quiet. Watching a little TV was quiet. Steve didn't prompt Ghost to talk, despite wanting to, and Ghost didn't offer that he wanted to share. After a while, however, Steve Finn's curiosity got the better of him and he shook Ghost by the shoulder. "Are you OK, Ghost?"

Ghost closed his eyes. A lot had been plowing through his head all at once. A lot he felt was stupid, and a lot of it hopeless. He let out a long breath and allowed himself to lean into Steve a little. "No." He pushed up off the couch and went to grab a bottle of anything. The fridge left him unsatisfied and when he turned around to go to the cabinets over the stove, Steve was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, looking about as gloomy as Ghost.

"You been actin' a little strange today. Ain't never known you to leave me in the dark." He bit his lip and stepped a little closer. Ghost could feel Steve's mind screaming at itself to hold Ghost to him, but Steve did not. "Are you mad at me or somethin'? Did I say anything stupid lately?"

Ghost showed him a little smile and shook his head. "Not mad. Just got a lot on my mind. Sorry. I didn't mean to push you away."

Steve was going to fucking cry. Ghost got real scared when he realized that much, Steve Finn was about to break down into tears. "Good," he started against his better judgement, but once the first step was done, he couldn't stop. "'Cause I couldn't stand it if you were mad at me, if you didn't want to be around me. I know things have been tough, and that we got on each other's nerves drivin' an' all, but... goddamn, Ghost. I get this sick feeling in my stomach anytime I think about something being wrong with you, or hurting you. The things that... _those_ things have blown over, and it's water under the bridge, but it still hurts and I'm scared maybe it scarred you in a way I can't see, that you wont _let_ me see.I'm too damn close to you, Ghost. It scares me how much I need you. But I don't ever want to find out if I could live without you." He pushed his face shamefully into Ghost's throat, letting out quiet sobs.

Ghost stood stunned for a moment, then put his arms around Steve, whose own arms were still locked across his chest. He held onto Steve good and tight, stroked his back and hair. The year on the road had left a lot in the way of turning over and over again with the previous year's turmoil. It had put a lot in between them, too, things they knew were there, but now keenly aware of them, building their strength. But being home now, it all felt surreal. Ghost guessed it had slapped Steve in the face pretty hard, and maybe this one good cry might help. Steve felt warm in his arms, and he could tell he felt safe, and if Ghost could help it, he always would.

After a good cry, the long night passed with deep, dreamless sleeps, new dawn kissing Ghost passionately, a sweet promise of the first few days return all by washed away.


End file.
